It’s a statement that makes his head lift, attention suddenly sharp and on her. If not for the fact he’s apparently talking to a fictional character it could almost make sense. He doesn’t recall an Angel, but then they aren’t always seen, they can get you before you even know they were ever there, and it’s far too late to do a thing about it. But the Angels displaced in time, not across realities, so how is he here?

“I think I’ve come a little further than the reach of an Angel,” he tells her on another sigh. But even if she doesn’t pick up the comment she made, he does, and he watches her, her back, the way the delicate fabric sits on her skin, trying not to think about what lies beneath.

“Said by who?” he asks. What does she know? What has she already seen, because if he’s sure of anything, it’s that she’s seen something.